This last weekend, I had what I think most medical professionals and toddlers would call a total meltdown. It’s because I’m in no way the ideal candidate for stay home orders. I’m not meant to be kept indoors, cooking and marveling at the number of dishes one simple meal creates.

As a result, I’m spending a lot of time thinking of all the things I’m never going to do again once we are released from these stay home orders. For example:

• I will never ever wear yoga pants for three days straight. I may go full formal attire for a month and am currently in the market for a tiara.

• I will never ever leave my home in slippers because I’m not getting out of the car. I’m not sure I can manage stilettos without significantly increasing my health insurance coverage, but I am virtually shopping for some strappy sandals.

• I will never ever cook a single meal in my home again. I have a list of 374 restaurants to get me through the first two months and am currently combing through various website reviews for number 375.

• I will never ever let my hair go an extra week between haircuts because I figure I’ll have time next week, because chances are someone is going to declare a national emergency, ensuring I’m instantly going to have hair that looks like a q-tip that has been stuck at the bottom of your purse for a month.

• I will never ever binge watch a series on a perfectly sunny day. In fact, I’m planning on tossing the remotes into a shoe box and into the back of the closet, only to bring them out if it gets cold. And I swear if one other person says the words Tiger and King in my presence, I’m going to toss them in the aforementioned shoe box.

• I will never ever spend six days in a row in my home. I am going to travel every single second of the weekend, squealing into the driveway at 6:45 a.m. each Monday, giving me just 15 minutes to get ready for my commute to work.

We are staying home. We are staying safe. Some of us are even staying sane.

But some of us are just staring out our windows, our dress shoes by the door. We’re ready to leap out of the quarantine and order round cut fries from the Grist Mill, sweet potato fries from the Phoenix, a burger from Muck and Fuss, take the dance lessons we bought at Christmas from the Swing Junction, and catch a movie and a salted caramel shake at the Drafthouse.

And that’s just on day one. See you soon — but not soon enough.

Winter Prosapio is a writer, a wife, and a working mom of two girls, two cats, and one ridiculously enthusiastic terrier mix.

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